The physician rang the bell, and Williams the butler—­a personage in black, short and stout, and exceedingly well fed, as his sleek face showed—­entered the apartment.

“Will you see, Williams, that Mr. Stukely’s portmanteau is taken to his room—­bed quite aired—­sheets all right, eh?”

“Both baked, sir,” replied Williams with a deferential but expressive smile, which became his face remarkably well.

“Then let us have lunch, Williams, and a bottle of the sherry?”

A look accompanied the request, which was not lost upon the butler.  He made a profound obeisance, and retired.  At lunch the doctor continued his theme, and represented my conduct as most blameable and improper.  He insisted that I ought to be severely punished, and made to feel that a boy is not to indulge every foolish feeling that rises, just as he thinks proper, but, like an inconsistent judge, he concluded the whole of a very powerful and angry summing up, by pronouncing upon me the verdict of an acquittal—­inasmuch as he told me to make myself as comfortable as I could in his house, and to enjoy myself thoroughly in it for the next fortnight to come, at the very least.  It may have been that, in considering my faults as those of the degenerate age in which I lived—­which age, however, be it known, lived afterwards to recover its character, and to be held up as a model of propriety and virtue to the succeeding generation—­the merciful doctor was willing to merge my chastisement in that which he bestowed daily upon the unfortunate object of his contempt and pity, or possibly he desired to inflict no punishment at all, but simply to perform a duty incumbent upon his years and station.  Be this as it may, certain it is that with the luncheon ended all upbraiding and rebuke, and commenced an unreservedness of intercourse—­the basis of a generous friendship, which increased and strengthened day by day, and ended only with the noble-hearted doctor’s life—­nor then in its effects upon my character and fortune.

It was on the night of the day on which I had arrived, that Doctor Mayhew and I were sitting in his sanctum; composedly and happily as men sit whom care has given over for a moment to the profound and stilly influences of the home and hearth.  One topic of conversation had given place easily to another, and there seemed at length little to be said on any subject whatever, when the case of the idiot, which my own troubles had temporarily dismissed from my mind, suddenly occurred to me, and afforded us motive for the prolongation of a discourse, which neither seemed desirous to bring to a close.

“What have you done with the poor fellow?” I enquired.

“Nothing,” replied the physician.  “We have fed him well, and his food has done him good.  He is a hundred per cent better than when he came; but he is still surly and tongue-tied.  He says nothing.  He is not known in the neighbourhood.  I have directed hand-bills to be circulated, and placards to be posted in the villages.  If he is not owned within a week, he must be given to the parish-officers.  I can’t help thinking that he is a runaway lunatic, and a gentleman by birth.  Did you notice his delicate white hand, that diamond ring, and the picture they found tied round his neck?”